Perfect Picture
by Darkest-Shades
Summary: Nobody knows it, but Kenny McCormick likes to draw.


Disclaimer: SP doesn't belong to me. But I do own all the DVD sets. You can't have those, though. 

Insert author noteage here- It could have been longer, if my brain worked overtime. :)

**Perfect Picture_  
_**

Nobody knows it, but Kenny McKormick likes to draw.

When he was eight and the class had to draw pictures to decorate the room, Kenny drew psychotic things. He drew clowns killing people; wielding knives and holding severed heads. He decorated the victim's blood with glitter so that it sparkled and jumped out from the page. When each of the boys were done, they showed off their artworks. Stan had done a stick figure delineation of his family, with the mountains artfully decorated in the backround. Kyle had drawn himself playing basketball on the courts. Cartman had splashed his page with celebrities as stars and money symbols bordered his drawing. When Kenny showed his, they might as well have looked at him cross-eyed. The boys scrunched their noses and raised their eyebrows.

"That's sick, dude." Kyle had said. They all nodded in agreement and turned back to their original tasks.

Kenny sighed beneath his hood and decided not to show his drawings to anyone anymore. Nobody would understand.

* * *

Since Kenny's family was poor, they couldn't afford paper, much less a sketchbook for him. The blonde, with pencils he had borrowed from people at school, drew on whatever he could find. Lost receipts left in the streets, the back of flyers that had carelessly been stapled to poles or taped on windows, and napkins sturdy enough not to tear under his pencil point. 

He didn't know when he had started using drawing as an outlet, but after doing art projects in school, his damp, cracked, and dirty room walls had suddenly begun to be decorated with his work. Above his tattered mattress he had pinned his serial killing clowns and doodles of carcass eating rats in a splotted uneven order. They covered the dirt on the walls that the posters of bikini-clad woman could not.

* * *

He, Stan, Kyle, and Cartman had played Detectives once. Since Kyle, Cartman and Stan had deemed themselves lead detectives, Kenny was defaulted to be the sketch artist. Though, he never sketched what he was told. 

A young girl looking for her doll had come into the agency asking for their help. Kenny pulled out the notebook Kyle had lent him and began drawing as the little girl described the characteristics of her doll.

"You got it, Ken?" Stan asked after Kenny had stopped moving his pencil across the page. Kenny nodded.

"All right, let's see." Kyle insisted. Kenny turned the paper towards them, with a wide smile hidden beneath his orange hood. His picture was a woman with with huge olive-shaped boobs.

Kyle's nose wrinkled like a raisin as soon as he glanced at the picture, "Damnit Kenny, that's not what she said!"

"Put that away, dude!" Stan remarked, turning away as Cartman addressed the young girl, whose name was Sarah Peterson.

Kenny ignored them and went over to his wall of 'Most Wanted.' It was practically covered with sketches of naked woman, their chests round and voluminous. He stood back and admired his sketches of girls with their bare forms gracing the corkboard. His friends just hadn't come to appreciate the female form yet, but he had. Kenny was always the most perverted of them all.

Kenny had taken the notebook home after they forgot about playing Detective and began playing laundromat owners again. He drew in it at least once every day and hid it beneath his bed. When the pages became full of women and death, and his pencil was stubbed with the eraser practically gone, he really wished he had a real sketchbook. With real drawing pencils and white erasers. The hard-rubbered pink erasers at the end of his number two pencil often left dejectory rose-colored marks on the pages of his works. But all he could do was wish, because he didn't have the money to spend on paper luxuries.

* * *

When he's at home, Kenny lays on his bed, stomach to mattress, and pens blueprints of whatever comes to his mind. One night, as he guided his pencil over a napkin he had attained at lunch, he could hear his parents arguing in the next room. His mother's constant shouts of asking why his father couldn't get a job and his father's drunkened reply, which always slurred, disrupted his thinking. Glass shatters against walls, and his mother screams are high-pitched. Every other night it's the same. Every night in between is like a calm before the storm of the next night. Kenny liked the nights when they were civil, and watched the static of the TV with his brother, Kevin. He could concentrate more on what he was trying to do, than spend most of it on tryng to ignore his parents. 

This particular night, his door had opened, and his father had entered, drunk with Whiskey and stained with piss.

"God dammit, Kenny, why is your mother such a goddamned nag?" he asked, his walking unstable and his eyes almost cross. His left eye had a ring of purple and black beginning to form beneath it. His mother had probably sucker-punched him from being so angry. "Why doesn't she go out and get a job if it bothers her so damn much, huh? Tell me that, Kenny." Kenny never answered as Stuart downed another drink of alcohol. His father came closer and squinted at the napkin and stubbed pencil in Kenny's hands.

"What you doing, Kenny?" he questioned, his head nodding back and forth, his eyes catching glimpse of the papers on the walls. "What is this?" he remarked, snatching the one of the glittered clown off it's tack. Kenny's blue eyes stared at his father's movements, watching as drool slid down the side of his mouth and onto the paper. The orbs of his dad squinted, trying to see the picture straight.

"You some kind of psychotic boy?" His father then crumpled up the page in his hands and tossed it over his shoulder as he left. He waved his bottle of alcohol in the air, "I hope not, we can't afford therapy." Stuart shut the door and left Kenny in his peace. The boy, clad in his grimy orange parka, slowly slid off his bed and picked up his crumpled piece of art. Opening it, pieces of red glitter fell to the floor like tears of blood. Kenny sighed, and tossed it next to his current project that sat on his bed. On the napkin was a soft elaborate sketch of his family, smiling and happy and clean, with a two story house gently drawn in the backround. His charcoal sun was shining, and there were no signs of blood or bikini's. And to him, it was the best thing he had ever done.

Kenny draws death and fear because it's what he knows best.

He draws sex and women because it's what he loves most.

He draws everything perfect because his own life isn't.


End file.
